


The Bells

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [68]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, First Meetings, Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 04:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: When Mycroft Holmes learns Sherlock has been hurt he meets Sgt. Gregory Lestrade...





	The Bells

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts: Bell

Mycroft sighed as the sedan drove the streets of London.

He had been hearing bells off and on all day.

The first bells that he really noticed was on his way to a conference that morning. There was a cathedral next door to the venue. Something had happened to the electronics that controlled the bells. They had rung for nearly an hour before someone could stop it. Then it was another hour of intermittent rings before the issue was finally fixed. 

He would have been mightily annoyed, but the conference had been something he rarely gets to say: _fun_.

There was a new ambassador who was clearly thrown to the sharks in the hopes that he would fail. Worse the poor man clearly knew it. He was surprisingly bright and trying to make the best of a bad situation by being an aggressive thorn to those that put him there. Mycroft found he wanted the man to succeed. Mycroft realized the ambassador was going to be key to counteract a strategy being engaged by Sir Benton, otherwise known as Stratus and one of his more annoying Ultra mates. Holmes knew that Benton had wanted someone else in that seat for a long-term maneuver he had in play. 

Mycroft was amused that someone’s watch had chimed with a bell just as several ideas formed in his mind. Something niggled with a light bell sound in memory, but he could not immediately place it. He dismissed it as trivial if he could not have been so bothered to properly memorize it.

While the ambassador’s position had no bearing on any of Mycroft’s dealings, it had been a pleasure for Antarctica as he subtly, yet overtly played a couple of games and secretly played several more; all while thwarting Stratus in his game. He had made a solid connection with the new ambassador who was smart enough to know he had an assist somewhere even if he had no idea who. Word of Benton’s frustration had made it through the grapevine to Mycroft.

_Yes, that very successful venture proved most enjoyable indeed._

A small corner of his mouth turned upwards.

“It’s good to see you smile, it’s been sometime, sir.” Anthea commented pleasantly as she worked.

“It’s good to have a reason to do so.” He leaned his head back for a moment.

Mycroft allowed a more pleased smile to grace his features as he savored his victories, big and small a little longer, before he returned to his own work.

He heard the warning beeps of a reversing lorry as they waited at a traffic light.

_More bells…_

The two rode in companionable silence until he felt as Anthea suddenly tensed beside him. She clicked on her mobile a moment before she called out to the driver for a change of directions to a police station. A police station in one of London’s grittier neighborhoods and he knew what it would be about before she said his name.

_Sherlock. _

Just like that his good mood evaporated.

_Oh, little brother, what have you done now?_

His little brother was so like him in some ways. Though not at his level, Sherlock was still far more intelligent than the peers of his age. He held much of the same disdain Mycroft had for most average minds and had built walls around himself to keep people at a distance who could not understand him. Yet he was so unlike him in other ways. Where Mycroft learned how to lie and play the game of social graces, Sherlock’s ever spinning mind had no such tact, as he verbally vivisected people with his deductions that put the worst of their vices on public display. Though he tried not to, Sherlock actually _cared _behind those self-built emotional walls. He wanted people to care, but the disdain he held for inferior minds, which were most normal minds in comparison, caused people to distance themselves from him. His intelligence was his solid rock, but his caring lark was his albatross. Both of which he sought to contain to make himself more likeable. Unfortunately, he often sought that containment via the use of illegal substances.

The past few years have been a revolving door of Sherlock leaving home and disappearing until someone from his team found him drugged out in doss houses, or back alleys when whatever funds he had obtained through means Mycroft did not want to think about were depleted, back to their parents’ home or to rehabilitation centers. Each time it would be with promises that it would be the last time; promises that had lasted a month at best. The already strained relationship between the brothers as Sherlock rebelled against all attempts of help nearly broke completely when Mycroft made the mistake of having Sherlock hauled into a center against his will. Sherlock escaped and had disappeared for nearly four months. Mycroft was beside himself with worry when one day their mother called him to say Sherlock had rang the bell and then passed out at the door. This time he volunteered for rehab, mumbling something about _The Work_ in his delirium. When he was stable again he denied saying such. Mycroft knew he had lied, but he was just so happy to have his brother back, he let it go. That had been the last time until now.

Sherlock had been clean for nearly three whole months. Mycroft had just started to hope that this time sobriety had finally taken hold and they had really crossed the last time. He wondered what triggered his brother’s relapse and how to stop it from happening again.

“Anthea?” Mycroft looked to his assistant who had gone suddenly quiet.

“He’s not in the system sir. He’s not charged with anything that I can find. He’s just there…in a cell.” She frowned as her fingers flew over her mobile and then her tablet. “He was found when a person of interest on your watchlist was arrested and processed there. When the name came across our notifications our team engaged the cameras to confirm and Sherlock was spotted.”

She gave him her tablet. Mycroft took the device in hand. It was a model with features not to be released for public consumption for another year, but he already found it to be an invaluable tool as he looked upon his brother. The image was fuzzy and in black and white, but Mycroft knew that was his brother laying there.

_He looks hurt._

Mycroft studied the screen. Sherlock’s far too frail looking frame twitched on the threadbare bunk. He was curled in a fetal position. Sherlock turned over on his side. A shadow of where he had lain remained.

_Sweat. He’s in early withdrawal. Oh no…_

Mycroft inwardly groaned. He had been in this same situation before with his brother. Sherlock would define it as being a drug user, but Mycroft defined it as being a recovering drug addict. Sherlock has been in and out of rehab since his mid-teens.

Mycroft knew it would get worse for his baby brother before it got better.

_Oh, Brother Mine, no. Not again! You promised me and this time I really believed you. _

The turn also revealed Sherlock’s face for a moment and Mycroft’s jaw clenched seeing the bruising he had suspected was on more than his brother’s face from the way he held himself.

The lines of shadow from the bars of the door sectioned the lower part of him. With a start he realized the jail cell was open. His brother could simply walk out. As if to prove the point an officer walked into the cell. There was no movement of the lines to indicate the opening of a door. 

_He’s there voluntarily?_

The dark-haired officer sat on the edge of the bunk and touched Sherlock. He took a flannel and wiped Sherlock’s sweaty forehead.

Mycroft studied the screen. Sherlock, who balked at most physical contact, had let this man not only touch him, but also let him tousle his dank curls without complaint.

_He must truly be feeling poorly from the withdrawal._

There was something of a conversation twixt the officer and Sherlock. Between the semi-blurry image and both of their heads being faced away from the camera, Mycroft could not read their lips. He studied the officer.

_A plainclothes detective. Athletic in general build, football player. Married. Dresses more for comfort than style. He is comfortable around my brother. Moreover my brother is comfortable around him. Who is he?_

Mycroft was surprised yet again when his brother turned over and painfully raised a hand that pointed somewhat in the direction at the camera focused on them, spoke, and then collapsed unto the bunk again.

“Sir?” Anthea looked to him with surprise at his sudden smile.

“He… Sherlock… Sherlock pointed to the camera and told the officer _No ambulance. No, I want my brother. He will find me. He will come_.”

Anthea’s eyes widened in their own surprise; she understood the importance that Sherlock reached out to Mycroft on his own. He knew she was about to speak again but stopped when the sedan pulled up to the police station.

Mycroft idly noted the ping of Anthea’s mobile as she waited outside of the sedan. He knew she had noted Sherlock’s condition as well and will have one of their private ambulances in route. He picked up his umbrella and entered the station.

As expected a uniformed sergeant sat at the charge desk. The officer looked up from the paperwork in front of him and raised both eyebrows at the sight of him.

“Good evening sir, I’m Sgt. Tommelson, how can we help you?” The sergeant quickly sat up straight in his chair. Mycroft mentally smirked. It was a common reaction upon first meeting him that has never grown old in amusing Mycroft.

“Good evening I’m Mycroft Holmes. I understand my little brother, Sherlock, is being held here.”

The sergeant looked to him with surprise.

_Yes, that damaged being in your holding cell is my relation._

Mycroft’s expression was stoic as ever as he raised a slight brow in challenge when the man did not otherwise respond.

“Um yes, right.” The man lifted a phone receiver about to dial a number when he stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps. He looked very relieved as he quickly waved someone over to the desk.

Mycroft turned to see who approached and blinked.

_Oh Universe!_

It was the officer who had sat with Sherlock in the cell.

_A little shorter than I, but still tall. The graying hair is very misleading; he’s no more than five years older than I am. Rugged and he’s seen some things as an officer in the MET, yet he’s not jaded – at least not yet. _

“Good evening, you must be Mr. Holmes. I’m Sgt. Gregory Lestrade. Your brother is with us.” The sergeant approached and held out his hand.

_He says that as if this were a hotel and Sherlock an invited guest._

Warm brown eyes that crinkled slightly greeted him as Mycroft found himself speechless. Both men blinked as the desk phone rang seemingly loud as their hands reached.

_What is with my noticing bells all day?_

It took everything Mycroft had not to gasp as the two palms made contact. He noted Lestrade had a similar reaction and shook the hand a moment too long before he reluctantly released.

_My god he’s stunning! The fuzzy image in the closed-circuit camera did not do this Adonis justice at all._

“I do hope my intransigent little brother is not in any trouble?” Mycroft found his voice at last.

“Oh no. No. That’s not it at all. He had received word that a girl he knew from…from _then_ had been badly hurt in a string of robberies that had been occurring in their…_area_ and was at St. Bart’s.” 

The way Lestrade had paused and emphasized _then_ and _area_, Mycroft knew this man was familiar with Sherlock’s drug history.

Sgt. Lestrade explained that when Sherlock got to Bart’s the girl, a sixteen-year-old named Lily had released herself against doctor’s orders. He knew she had a place under the Vauxhall Arches and went to convince her to return to the hospital. Sherlock in his rush to get to Lily forgot how he was dressed. He looked like money and he was set upon by those same robbers.

“A fight ensued, but at four against one, Sherlock was robbed and beaten badly into unconsciousness. Unfortunately, he was among some of his former companions; they had shot him up to ease his pain and…” Lestrade shrugged helplessly.

“And once back down that rabbit hole…” Mycroft sighed in understanding.

_He stayed there…_

“That was nearly three days ago. One of my guys spotted him, an hour ago. He was just enough up from it to recognize Cooper and asked for me. I tried to get him to go to a hospital to be checked out, but he refused. He said he didn’t mean it, didn’t want to stay in it, but he was hurt and wanted the pain to go away and it was a familiar feeling. He wanted you but was afraid you would not believe him.” Lestrade ran a rough hand through his hair, realized he made a mess of it, and pushed it back. “It’s been what - less than three months since his last hit? He’s not strong enough on his own yet to resist.”

It was not accusatory, still, Mycroft bristled at the slight reprimand in Lestrade’s words.

_How dare he!_

“Sgt. Lestrade, my brother and our family have a bad history with Sherlock and his drug use. He is aware of that, his wariness is certainly justified given the multiple times this road has been travelled.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose flummoxed as to why he was explaining himself to this stranger. “Regardless, I was out of the country for a few days. He knew I was coming back today, and it is me that he wanted. I thank you for your help. A private ambulance is currently in route. Let me see my brother.”

“Please?” the sergeant raised a brow.

“Pardon?” Mycroft looked to him incredulously.

“Ask nicely.” Lestrade crossed his arms in defiance. “Your brother and now you, I swear. Your massive intellect does not give the right to speak to those of us not up to your mental capacity just any kind of way. I tolerate it from him because at least he’s useful when he’s clean. I’m not putting up with it from the both of you. You’re posh, so I know you have manners. Use them.”

_Oh, you have big brass ones, do you not?_

Mycroft glared at the man.

“Are you okay, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade looked at him curiously, “You look like you’re in pain.”

Most people were taken aback when he stared at them as so. The glare did not seem to faze Lestrade at all.

_This man seems…_amused…_he’s seriously trying not to laugh. _

Mycroft blinked and gritted his teeth. “May I _please_ see my brother?”

“Damn that looked like it actually hurt you. Fine. Let’s go.” Sgt. Lestrade turned and walked away without looking to see if he followed. It afforded Mycroft a view of what promised to be a very nice arse under the ill-fitting trousers.

Mycroft blinked at the unfamiliar rush of feelings that flooded him as he followed the man to the open cell.

“Oh, Brother Mine!” Mycroft whispered at the sight of Sherlock who moaned slightly.

“My..?” Sherlock slowly sat up. “My… you came…”

Mycroft saw his relief and shame. Sherlock’s beautiful eyes were bloodshot and far too dilated. He looked his brother over carefully. His brother was a series of mottled black and blue contusions. The way he held himself Mycroft suspected a cracked rib or two as well. He was in ill-fitting clothing that was not his own.

“You knew I would. You know I always will, Brother Mine. I’ll always be here for you.”

Sherlock was smelly and filthy and knew it. Holmes pride was a formidable thing and Mycroft knew Sherlock had clung to what little he could, even as every fiber of his being cried out for help. Words that his mouth will never form as he tried to stand.

“I’ve got him…” Lestrade, who was standing behind Mycroft and watched the two brothers, had started to move.

Experience made Mycroft rush forward. He caught Sherlock in his arms as just his little brother’s knees buckled. Sherlock moaned and angled towards the commode. Both Lestrade and Mycroft held Sherlock as his body purged before they lowered him to the bunk again. He writhed in pain, his curly sweat-damped head in Mycroft’s lap as he moaned.

That was as close to begging as Sherlock could get. Without Lestrade having told him what happened, Mycroft would have known for sure that this use of drugs was not intentional, by that act alone. Even high Sherlock was belligerent when he chose to be high. 

“I know… ‘Lock, I know.” Mycroft leaned over and whispered as he wiped the sweaty brow, “we’ll get you well and then we’ll get _them_.”

A slight move of Sherlock’s head was the only response of acknowledgement to his words.

An officer appeared and announced when the ambulance for Sherlock arrived. The paramedics said nothing, but the shock of Sherlock’s condition registered on their faces as he was stabilized and wheeled out.

Mycroft squinted, the beginnings of a headache beginning to show as he shook his head slowly. He had questions for Lestrade, but they would have to wait.

_A visit to the warehouse may be in order._

“Tinnitus?” Lestrade turned and gave Mycroft a once over.

“Excuse me?”

“You look like one of the chiefs when his tinnitus is acting up. You should get that checked out once you have Sherlock settled. It can lead to other things if you ignore it. I’m serious.”

Everything he could see about the man told Mycroft the concern was genuine. It was rare someone not family or Anthea looked at him that way.

_Tinnitus?_

And the thing that had niggled earlier jumped to the forefront of his mind.

> Mycroft was fourteen, he was eavesdropping on a conversation between Mummy and his Aunt Victoria. He was in the family room pretending to read while the two women sat in the kitchen conversing about the magic moment when they _knew_.
> 
> “For me it was literal fireworks. We were in the States and it was the American Independence Day. I had forgotten about that charming little celebration of those ungrateful little colonists across the Pond cutting the apron strings from us.” Victoria giggled at her snark against America. “Your brother kissed me and suddenly there were a series of _booms_ and I knew it was more than sparklers and fire crackers. And what about you? How did you know you were in love?”
> 
> “It was not because of low explosive pyrotechnic devices,” Mummy had mused. “For me it was simpler. Just an odd series of ringing bells. For some reason I had been hearing all types of bells that day. Church bells, telephones ringing, door bells and such. It was quite maddening to be honest. For a moment I thought I had some weird tinnitus and then I looked at the man and I just _knew_. I still hear bells.”

Mycroft gave a silent moan as someone repeatedly tapped on the bell at the front desk to get the missing charge sergeant’s attention as he and Lestrade passed to leave. Mycroft could all but hear someone shouting _Winner! Winner! Winner!_ as the memory of the two women came to him.

Mycroft looked at the man in front of him as he remembered all the bells he had noticed that day.

_No. Why him? Why now? _

“Thank you for your help with my brother sergeant. I apologize for any inconvenience.” Mycroft said aloud.

“He’s an okay bloke when he’s not being such a dick. Which is kind of always,” Lestrade mused. “I hope the next time I see him he’s clean again. Take care, Mr. Holmes.”

“He will be. Thank you again, Sergeant Lestrade.”

Mycroft climbed into the ambulance with his brother. He knew Anthea would follow.

_Never in my life have I wanted anything or anyone or feared anything or anyone as much as this man that I cannot have. No. _

It was with a bit of sadness when Mycroft realized the next day that he no longer noticed ringing bells out of the ordinary and the slight ringing in his ear had died down…

_But it had never quite gone away._

<><><> 

Gregory and Mycroft were on a private jet on holiday celebrating the second decade of their wedding anniversary. It was after a wonderful surprise celebratory dinner with their children, friends and other family members the night before. They even had managed to get through it without Sherlock finding a murder to be solved as he had at their tenth anniversary.

“When did you know you had fallen in love with me?” Gregory teasingly asked, “I bet you know the exact date, don’t you?”

“You know I do.” Mycroft answered coolly. “I knew when I heard the bells.”

“Bells? Really?”

Mycroft knew Gregory was aware that he was purposely being evasive and grinned at him.

"Yes, but what was the _exact_ date?” Greg laughed, determined to get an answer.

Mycroft quietly answered the question and waited.

“But… that was… That was the date we met! You’ve loved me since then?” Gregory stared at Mycroft completely stunned as it came to him. “Yet you waited that long, you watched me while I was happily married at first, never knowing.”

“I know. I have. And yes, I waited, I watched, but I always knew.” Mycroft took Gregory’s hand in his, and kissed it with a grin, as the _Fasten Seat Belt_ sign pinged on.

“After all, the universe is rarely so lazy, and even now, I still hear bells for you.”


End file.
